


Revolution is An Excuse To Keep Loving You

by TheLastWhiteRose



Category: Historical RPF, Political RPF - Russian 21st c., World War I - Fandom
Genre: Blowjobs, Creampie, Explicit Sex, Frottage, Lack of political knowledge, M/M, OOC, Oh god it’s so bad, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:34:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22565608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLastWhiteRose/pseuds/TheLastWhiteRose
Summary: Lenin takes Bakunin’s hand, still outstretched, and laces their fingers together. Neither of them are used to physical displays of affection, aside for those of the carnal, animalistic kind. They stand there, just for a moment, basking in one another company’s, the sheer closeness they share, until Lenin leans in.“God,” he says, and his kiss is reverential.
Relationships: Vladimir Lenin & Mikhail Bakunin, Vladimir Lenin/Mikhail Bakunin
Comments: 5
Kudos: 20





	Revolution is An Excuse To Keep Loving You

**Author's Note:**

> 1.) I hate myself.  
> 2.) I wrote this for 100 followers on Twitter.  
> 3.) I’m never writing again.

The two men sit side by side, shoulders barely brushing. It would be a strangely intimate scene, save for the near oppressive silence that occupies the space. It permeates through the air, stifling the two in a myriad of stale air that Lenin just can’t seem to overcome. When had sitting with Bakunin become this tiring? When had their easy smiles and vibrant laughter transcended into uneasy glances and awkward conversation? Back in Switzerland, they’d correspond nearly every day, so much so that Lenin had contemplated purchasing his own electronic telegraph in order to better communicate with him. 

They’d been younger in Switzerland. Full of youth, vitality, and the vigor that only came from the ever-pressing threat of being arrested for your political beliefs. Back then, the most important aspect of himself Lenin had to hide was the fact that he was a communist, not the fact that he was desperately, hopelessly, in love with Bakunin. Late night trysts became day-long vacations, so long as he was safely within the confines of Bakunin’s arms.

“You won,” Bakunin says finally, lifting his startling blue eyes to meet Lenin’s own. His gaze is hard, incorrigible, and utterly unreadable. Lenin doesn’t bother to try.

“Comrad-“

“Don’t you comrade me.” Bakunin’s eyes are flaming now, filled with the rage of decades of unheard rapture, of ignored speeches. “I work for years, slaving away at the hordes of poor, the masses of your so-called proletariat, and then you come along and you ruin everything! You ruined everything, and all in the name of Karl Marx.” 

For a moment, Lenin remains quiet. He’d never meant to ruin Bakunin’s dreams of destroying the state; he had only been fighting for what he thought was right: the worker’s control of the means of production, a proletariat controlled government. After all, once the proletariat controlled dictatorship dissipated, didn’t anarchism reign over what Marxism had started? No matter how hard he strained to understand Bakunin’s frustration, it simply did not compute. 

“Mikhail,” Lenin tries, and his voice is soft, barely audible over Bakunin’s heavy breathing. It’s a far cry from the powerful cadence he harnessed during his speeches. “Have you ever read Marxist literature? Anarchism follows this revolution, comrade. Your dream has just begun, my friend.”

Bakunin laughs, a short bark of laughter that’s more angry than genuinely mirthful. “Marx is the most theologically empty man I have ever had the displeasure of meeting. I would rather grovel at the knees of Adam Smith than ever willingly cooperate with Karl Marx.”

Lenin feels his temper flare, but he suppresses it with the grit of his teeth. “Would you rather the White Army have won, then? That rag-tag band of Mensheviks, crown loyalists, and dissidents? This was the only way, my friend.”

“It was not, and you know it.” 

His tightly wound self-control snaps, and Lenin runs a hand over his hair. They’ve always been at odds over their ideologies, and it was something that Lenin ignored and ignored and ignored until finally, on the cusp of revolution, he could not ignore any longer. 

The Russian Revolution had caught him by surprise. One day, he was traipsing in Bern, envisioning his future with Bakunin. If they got a house together, settled as liberal journalists for a newspaper, would anybody question their heterosexuality? He figured that so long as they entered the house separately, and never went anywhere together, they would be in the clear. When Lenin heard from a German envoy about the possibility of an uprising against the tsar, he’d taken the chance before he could contemplate the repercussions for his and Bakunin’s relationship. 

“Mikhail…” Lenin tries again, and this time, his tone is plaintive, pleading. It’s the tone that Lenin knows makes Bakunin soft for him. True to his experience, Bakunin softens imperceptibly, the anger in his eyes cooling down ever so slightly. “This revolution doesn’t change anything, and we’re one step closer to your dream. Our dream.”

For the first time, Lenin’s words seem to resonate within Bakunin. He sighs, running a hand through his own hair in exasperation, and nods. 

“I suppose that’s the most I’m going to get from you. We’ll see if the state “withers away” like you say it will.”

Lenin takes Bakunin’s hand, still outstretched, and laces their fingers together. Neither of them are used to physical displays of affection, aside for those of the carnal, animalistic kind. They stand there, just for a moment, basking in one another company’s, the sheer closeness they share, until Lenin leans in. 

“God,” he says, and his kiss is reverential. He would gladly worship every inch of Bakunin with his lips, just to have him under his thumb, under him. That’s where he belongs, close enough so that every inch of him presses against Bakunin’s skin. 

His Mikhail only exists within these four walls. This Mikhail loves him, and doesn’t outwardly scorn his policies to the public. This Mikhail yields his heart, his body, his mind, to Lenin’s touch. He doesn’t argue about theory or the impact of Marxism, doesn’t put up a tough front. This Mikhail is open and loving, and all for Lenin.

The door is already locked, a precaution Lenin takes whenever he and a political opponent are in the same room. Privacy and political discussion were one and the same, after all, especially when you harbored the beliefs Lenin did. This, however, is eons away from discussion.

For all the bluster and masculinity Lenin exuded in public, he had always been shockingly submissive to Bakunin, and this time was no different. He had been the one to initiate the encounter, but Bakunin was the one leading the dance. With a wry smile, Bakunin sets Lenin onto the hard bed, never once stopping to separate himself from his lips, his skin, his body. 

He’s wearing too many layers, Lenin thinks dimly, and he decides to rectify the situation by pushing his vest off, unbuttoning his shirt. In return, Bakunin bites the spot that connects Lenin’s neck and shoulder hard enough to leave a mark, but not nearly hard enough to draw blood. Lenin’s own vestments are stripped away, one by one, until he’s bare from the waist up. The cool night air should make him shiver, but Bakunin’s doing a far better job at making him tremble than the air.

One calloused hand skates up Lenin’s body, and he is just vaguely aware of Bakunin’s form hulking over his, his cock straining against the seam of his pants. The sight should revolt Lenin, should make his stomach turn, but all he feels in return is a stirring of his own cock.

Lenin knows that if they were to be caught by any member of the Bolsheviks, they’d be hanged and have their bodies thrown to the public. Homosexuality is against the very platform Lenin stands upon, and any dissent is to be punished severely. He should push Bakunin away, turn him in to Stalin, not let him unbutton his pants and push them down, his breath mere centimeters from his cock.

Despite the inherent risks, Lenin knows that across any timeline, any generation, he’d crave the feeling of Bakunin against him. If homosexuality was so wrong, then why was Lenin’s only sense of solace Bakunin’s cock pounding him from behind? Was he truly so depraved? Or was the system that had systematically suppressed these emotions the depraved one? 

He doesn’t have time to dwell upon it any longer. He’d rather suffer a thousand deaths, a million years in prison, than to not have Bakunin’s fat cock down his throat for a second longer. He pushes against the older male, forcing him off, before dropping to his knees. 

“Let me,” he whispers against the outline of his cock, and Mikhail obliges. 

They’ve always had to be quick during their trysts, and this is no different. They have several meetings tomorrow to discuss the preliminary government. Still, Lenin can’t help but want to drag it out a little longer, break down Bakunin’s immaculate composure just like he broke down Lenin’s. He mouths at the outline until Bakunin forces his own pants down. The action causes his cock to slap against Lenin’s cheek, and Lenin suppresses the inward smile at Bakunin’s impatience.

It’s always like this. Bakunin allows Lenin to take it at his own pace at first, but the tremor of his hands betray his impatience. When he can no longer stand his teasing pace, he opens Lenin’s jaw and throat fucks him into oblivion, stopping just before he spills into his mouth. This time, however, having been wound up from months of not seeing him, Bakunin pulls Lenin off much sooner than usual. 

“I want to finish in you,” Bakunin says, and his voice is that shade of hoarse that only Lenin has heard. “Bed. Now.”

Lenin obeys, getting rid of any remaining clothes as he sidles over to the bed. Bakunin follows him, his eyes wandering over his strong shoulders, his toned back, and finally to his backside. When they’re both situated on the bed, Bakunin on top of Lenin, Lenin’s face buried within the sheets, Bakunin reaches down to his abandoned bag, pulling out a small bottle of lubricant. He pours some over his cock, and then to his fingers. Lenin, knowing what’s to come, can’t quite conceal the soft gasp once he feels a finger probe him open.

“Ready?” Bakunin whispers once he’s managed to fit three in. Lenin gives a vocalization of consent, and Bakunin chuckles. “If you are in pain, say ‘borscht’”.

The first push is heavenly. Bakunin’s always been a bit too thick for Lenin to handle without preparation, but the end is always worth the pain. Lenin gasps, and Bakunin warns him with a soft touch of his cock. 

Bakunin always sets the pace. One second, he’s hard and fast, so deep and so good that Lenin can’t help but become an incoherent mess, nothing but moans of “Mikhail” and “God” coming out of his mouth. It’s blasphemy, he knows, but even if god was real, he wouldn’t mind when it feels this good. Other times, he’s slow and methodical, Bakunin’s hand jerking him slowly, teasing him until he’s throbbing with the need to come. 

That’s another thing. Lenin almost always comes before Bakunin. He puts up a good fight, waiting until he can’t possibly hold it anymore to spill, but Bakunin (more often than not), wins in the end, not that it’s a contest.

“V-Vlad-,” Bakunin whispers into his ear, his thrusts becoming short and erratic, all semblance of tempo lost. “You’re so-gah-perfect, I love-“ 

By the time Lenin’s regained enough consciousness to contemplate anything other than the feel of Mikhail in him, Bakunin has stilled, holding him open so he can see himself spill out of his asshole. He rolls over once Bakunin has deemed the sight fulfilling, immediately seeking out Bakunin’s warmth. 

Perhaps tomorrow would not be so bad, if this was allowed to occur.

* * *

The next day, when they are both sated and Mikhail has safely returned to his quarters, Lenin carefully treads outside. He’s dressed normally, in a professional but humble suit, and to the average passerby, nothing was amiss. Stalin is no average passerby. 

“Vladimir,” he says, and something about his voice makes Lenin’s skin crawl. 

Stalin had always been handsome. When they had first met, Lenin had been taken aback by his appearance. He was a short, broad man, but he carried himself with the disposition of royalty (ironic, given that they were there to discuss the usurping of the monarchy). Aside from his visage, there was the gleam of intelligence, the shine of ambition in his large, cruel eyes, and Lenin had nearly cowered under their probing gaze. 

“Joseph,” answers Lenin, and he has to stop the involuntary grimace his face nearly pulls.

“I just saw Mikhail leave your quarters. Must’ve been an eventful night.” 

Lenin feels a flush rise to his cheeks, but he violently suppresses it. “Yes, we were discussing the repercussions of the civil war. As always, it devolved into an argument about whether or not anarchism was going to occur in the near future. I apologize if you could hear our argument.”

“No, of course not,” Stalin says, but Lenin doesn’t miss the way his lips quirk when he turns away.

Today was going to be a long day.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, kudos and comments are appreciated!


End file.
